


Murder! Murder Most Foul

by shadow13



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Courtroom Drama, Dark, F/M, Icky gross death, Interior Design Porn (apparently), Lawyers, Mild Kink, Older Man/Younger Woman, Prison
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-03-06 09:38:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3129815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow13/pseuds/shadow13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Initially written for a tumblr prompt, being continued in multiple chapters.) Sansa stands accused of Joffrey's murder. Her only hope of escape is her mother's old friend, the attorney Petyr Baelish. Has he saved her, or is she merely encountering danger of a very different sort? Modern AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prison

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mztlynne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mztlynne/gifts).



> Initially written for a Tumblr prompt (meeting in prison AU). Continued here in multiple chapters.

She had stopped crying around three in the morning, which was good. It hadn't been loud enough to rouse the attention of the women around her in the cells that scattered the dark hall, just quiet whimpers of a broken child to serve as a lullaby of horror in a frightening world; a world she didn't belong in.

But in any case, she had stopped crying, and simply stood, staring straight ahead at the bars. “ _Stark, it’s your lawyer_ ,” the female officer on watch had said, and Sansa hadn't even blinked. Lawyer? She hadn't been able to contact anyone. Court appointed? She’d sink like a stone… An attorney and his client have certain rights to privacy, and so Sansa got to leave that horrible, cold, dirty, dark, stinking cell and enter a room that even had a window and looked out over brown hills. Her throat seized, she almost wanted to cry again. The door had a window of reinforced glass, and she didn't turn around right away when she heard it open behind her. “ _She’ll need to be returned by 2100 hours._ ”

"Not to worry, I’m well aware of the rules."

That voice… _her_ lawyer? It was both rough and smooth, and it made Sansa turn around in her uniform blue-grey jumper, a color that looked as washed out as her eyes did. The girl’s lips parted in a bit of wonder: nothing was uniform about  _him._ His black suit was flawless, his tie was dark green silk, and a mockingbird shone from it in silver as a tie tack. Sansa’s voice broke because she hadn't used it in hours. “Mr….Baelish?”

He set his leather briefcase down on the composite board table, a kind of smirking smile on his features. “I’m so pleased to see you remember me.”

"But…I don’t-"

"Sit, Sansa," he told her, and she pulled back the metal chair immediately and sat, not minding the squeal of it scraping against the floor. "Your mother would be rolling over in her grave to see you here." His mouth twisted in a grimace, he looked as pained as Sansa was by the thought. "Of course I’d come to help dear Cat’s child."

One of the greatest lawyers in this part of the country, she actually stood a  _chance_ -! But, oh, how could she ever afford to- “I-I have a trust fund,” Sansa stammered. “Mom and Dad set it up for me, I can pay you from tha-“

"We’ll not worry about payments right now, sweetling," he dismissed without even looking at her, sitting across from her at the table and opening his case with a sharp "snap." His green and grey eyes slowly looked up at her, and Sansa could not have placed the look in them. "I’m sure we can work something out, though." When Sansa failed to respond, he continued, "But for an old friend? Why, pro bono would be fine. Now, Sansa: whoever else you lie to,  _I_ have to know the truth.”

She almost started crying again. “Mr. Baelish,  _please_! I haven’t lied, not once! I didn't kill Joffrey, I  _wouldn't_!”

"He’d been abusing you for months." His manner was absolutely pitiless, his gold-tipped pen tapped against the plastic top of the table. "He left you for another girl and there’s talk he’s responsible for what happened to your family. It’s a grand motivation, don’t you think?"

Sansa’s sobs threatened to choke her, she began to drop her weary head onto her arms, crooked on the table. “ _No, no, no…_ " It was all she could say, on repeat. " _I didn't, I didn't-! I didn't…_ ”

For a moment, the only sound was the girl’s desperate sniffles, but then she heard her council breathe in a husky voice. “ _Yes_.” Yes? What did that mean. His fingers found her chin and lifted her face up to him. Sansa sniffled, her cheeks splotchy with her tears. The man removed a white silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat and dabbed at her tears with touching gentleness, nearly intimacy. “Oh, you’re  _perfect_.”

"I…I don’t understand."

"You will. Now, sweetling, remember: the best lies always have a bit of truth in them."

"But I told you, I’m  _not_ -“

"Shhh…" His index finger was warm, pressed against her lips. "I believe you." The tension visibly left Sansa’s shoulders, she slumped forward. "But they  _are_  lying, aren't they? Cersei? The detectives in her pocket?”

"I…" Sansa hesitated, but then nodded, firmly. "I suppose so."

"Good girl. Now." He stood, the chair scraping against the floor, and Sansa was a little nervous as he walked slowly around the table, his long, lithe hands coming to rest at her shoulders. Squeezing slightly. "You’re young and you’re beautiful, and you’re heartbreaking when you cry. That’s going to put a lot of favor in your corner. You trust me, don’t you, Sansa?"

Did she have a choice? “Yes, Mr. Baelish.”

"Please, call me Petyr." She nodded, almost imperceptibly. "You always tell the truth, don’t you, Sansa? That’s a virtue. But what good is the truth if it sounds like a lie? And if a lie sounds like the truth, that is another kind of virtue, isn't it?"

"It doesn’t sound like one."

"A virtue of rescuing an innocent girl from a horrible fate. Now….if you do exactly as I say, not only will I rescue you from the lion’s den, I’ll have you rolling in cash for wrongful imprisonment, companies lining up to film your life story, and every magazine in America in love with your picture."

"I-I…I don’t want all those things."

"If nothing else…" He bent forward, and Sansa could feel his breath upon her ear. She shivered slightly. " _I’ll get you home_.” Baelish righted himself, striding back to his case and latching it once more. “I’m going to get you out on bail.”

"B-but the judge said - Petyr, it’s over two hundred thousand-"

"You let me worry about that." His look wasn't hard, she realized, when his green-grey gaze snapped up at her; it was determined. Sansa’s stomach twisted a little, but if he was on her side…she might be a very lucky girl. "You don’t belong here, not you, sweetling."

"…w-where would I go? The Baratheons were the ones who were taking care of me."

"I’ll take responsibility for you. That way there will be no risk of flight."

Sansa could have kissed him. “I’ll  _never_ be able to repay you for this, Mr. Baelish.” Her breath was almost gone with the joy and terror in her heart.

The crafty man smiled again, and it was sharp, and just a little dangerous. “A lot can happen between now and never.”


	2. House

Sansa was able to change back into the clothes she was wearing when she was arrested: a cobalt blue dress with carefully cut panels that made it cling delightfully to her waist and bust. The hem of it fell to the middle of her white thighs, and the skirt was stained with mud. The processing officer had given her back everything she had on her at the time of her arrest: her black leather clutch with her wallet (her ID, a punch card for a local cafe, and seventy-two cents); her black leather flats, similarly caked in dirt from running through the garden party, just trying to get away, away, away; and her black toe-socks, but they had been reduced to ribbons, so she had slipped bare-footed into the shoes. They pinched against her feet in the car, and Petyr had simply had her take them off.

Petyr, he insisted she call him Petyr. “Is it appropriate to call my lawyer that?”

“Sansa, I am always your lawyer, but I hope I am also your friend. Let's not keep secrets and formal names, hm?” And he smiled, he seemed to always smile. Sansa wished she remembered how to do that. Regarding the shoes, however, he had smirked again. “I could carry you into the house, if you're worried about doing injury to your feet.”

“N-no, I can walk...” she said, looking down at her bare toes. “I'd hate to track dirt into your home, though.”

“Dirt can be cleaned,” he assured her, and so Sansa carried her shoes inside and shivered at the autumn breeze that ruffled over her bare shoulders.

Petyr's house was _beautiful_. She doubted it was more expensive than the Stark family home, and yet it seemed in some way more...luxurious, more ostentatious. The Starks had to have enough room for six boisterous, busy children, and that cost money. Petyr's home was more like a grand palace in miniature, with marble tiles and columns, fixtures in golden brass shined to a mirror quality. It was airy and pleasant smelling, all white, with billowing, gauzy curtains and French windows and doors for a maximum of light. In her dirty clothes, Sansa hardly dared to move.

Petyr shut the door behind her, smiling all the while, and for a moment, he simply observed her taking in his home. At last, though, his fingers gently landed on the black clutch in her hands, and he took it away from her. Sansa faltered for a moment, feeling like her entire world was in that clutch, what little she had, but Petyr smiled insistently at her. “You're looking a little tired, my sweetling. You'll feel much better after a nice, hot shower. Or perhaps you'd rather soak in a tub? I imagine it's been some time.”

The girl balked slightly. “P-Petyr, I don't have anything to wea-”

That smile on his lips never once faltered as his thin fingers found her elbow, guiding her toward the winding staircase. “It's all taken care of, dear Sansa, everything's prepared.”

The girl's eyes were wide and a bit brighter than they had been. “You got my clothes?”

His mouth pursed and grimaced slightly. “I'm afraid I was unable to get on the Lannister property for that.”

“But...then...”

He paused in front of a door, opening it up to a beautiful guest room, and in sharp contrast from the rest of the house: the floor was done in dark wood, and the furnishings matched it, with gold damask curtains. A chaise settee matched the fabric, and the room connected to her own, private washroom, away from the windows. Sansa had missed outside views, it was true, but that gorgeous bathroom – with its dark wood accents and deeply set tub – made her mouth water to be completely alone with herself and to _revel_ in a much-missed luxury. Petyr smiled at her as she admired it, his eyes flashed, but he quickly crossed to the closet and opened that for her as well.

Sansa paused, a little nervously. “...all new clothes?”

“There's socks and other....undergarments in that dresser, over there.”

Sansa tiptoed on unsure, cold feet toward the closet, a hand reaching out to brush the collection of dresses, skirts, blouses...they were extremely high quality, she recognized the brands as ones Cersei and Margaery preferred – expensive. “Petyr...” Her tongue peeked out to wet her lower lip. So many questions, she wasn't even sure which to ask first. “Um...how did you get my size?”

“Oh, some of those boutiques have _amazing_ shop girls. I described you, showed a photo...if they're ill fitting, though, we'll get you other things.”

“Did you pick these all out....yourself?”

He began to laugh, and she wasn't sure if that made her feel better or not. “I picked out a few things I thought you might like, and they selected based on that. Really, Sansa, I'm amused you think I have so much time while I mount your defense.”

The girl blushed to match her hair. “...um....th-the underthings, you didn't...you didn't pick _them_ out...”

If she weren't so busy being incredibly embarrassed, she might have seen the flash of silver in his eyes. “No.” His voice was low, rough, even.

The best lies have some truth in them, that is what he had told her. She wondered why it came to mind then? “It was really very kind of you to go to so much trouble for me, Mr. Baelish.”

“Petyr. And it wasn't any trouble at all.” Before she could stammer out an awkward reply, he motioned toward the open bathroom. “There's fresh towels, soaps, everything. Take all the time you need. I'm ordering in – I didn't think you'd be prepared to go out just yet.” She nodded and turned to take stock. “Oh, and Sansa.” The girl waited, a hand on the jamb of the washroom door. “Until the trial starts, you're going to want to keep a low profile. Your hair...” He took a few quiet steps toward her, and Sansa breathed sharply in when his lithe, elegant hands ran through one lock by her temple, down to the tips. His thumb stroked the ends before he finally released her. “You draw a lot of attention with hair like that. I purchased some temporary dye in a more....mundane shade.”

The Stark girl nodded. “I understand.”

He smiled and stepped back, and she breathed a little more easily. “I'll see you downstairs whenever you're ready.” Without another word, he turned and strode out of the room. Sansa could hear the even click of his heels on the stairs, and yet when she closed the door behind him, she felt the compunction to lock it. Did Petyr scare her? Or was this leftover from being locked in Lannister rooms, wanting to put as many barriers between herself and her “hosts” as possible. She wasn't sure. She did lock the washroom door, but that didn't seem so unusual to her. And besides....with the door closed, certainly Petyr wouldn't find any reason to bother her? He had said to take her time.

And ohhh, she did...Sansa had forgotten that heaven existed in the months of hell she'd been living through. This bathtub was heaven. She found scented bath salts by the rim of the tub – she dumped the entire jar in and she _reveled_. They smelled like roses, and she closed her eyes and remembered walks with Margaery through the gardens. That was too painful, so instead she remembered planting flowers with her mother. That was too painful as well, so instead she just imagined herself laying on a bed of roses, and it was strange, but it made her feel slow and sensual and _beautiful_. Her breasts and belly and thighs and throat all felt like perfection in the water. Mr. Baelish must have also asked around about hair care for ladies, for the shampoo was a much higher quality than she expected, and there was good, creamy conditioner as well. She lathered her hair root to tips, and then found hand-milled soap and scrubbed until it felt like her skin might come off. Briefly, she wished it would. She wanted her old self to slough away and go down the drain, so that a new Sansa would step out of the tub, bright red and with a much harder shell than before. To that effect...her fingers lingered on the bottle of dye, but she eventually let it go, as if it burned slowly. Surely Petyr couldn't object to just one night of being _her_? One beautiful night? She could go back to hiding everything about herself tomorrow. Right at the moment, she wanted to be Sansa, the best – no, the _strongest_ version of Sansa that had ever been.

The bathroom was surprisingly warm when she stepped out of the tub. Even damp, her skin didn't chill overly much, though her pink nipples budded to a sharper point. Mr. Baelish must have had heated floors, because when she had finished drying on the bathmat, she didn't wince with chill as she crossed to the door. She took her time in drying as well, letting much of the water drip slowly down her skin before toweling it away. In the bedroom, she picked out a dress of silvery grey and pretended it was her armor. Strangely, she felt like Petyr would be proud of her, and even more strangely, she liked that feeling. The underwear drawer, however...Well, these weren't her style. All beautiful and lacy, and no doubt very expensive, but they were made more for beauty than for practical wear. And even as indulged as she had been at home, her mother had always advocated practical wear. Well, she could hardly go without, so she picked out a bra done in a beautiful, peacock teal, with contrasting lighter colors and – good Lord, crystals hung from where the cups joined at her sternum. Sansa blushed to find matching underwear....but, well, the set was shockingly supportive. She plucked at herself nervously, but at last focused on slowly drying her hair by brushing through the thick, red tangle and toweling it in turns.

More than an hour and a half had passed by the time the girl tip-toed noiselessly down the stair, the sun already dipping low on the horizon. The lights that were on were soft and quiet, not like the harsh LED bulbs of the prisons, and it made Sansa breathe that much easier. She didn't have to wander far to find her host; Petyr was waiting in what she supposed was a living room, but it felt too elegant for that – more like a lounge. He was stretched in a leather armchair, a glass of richly red wine held delicately in his lithe fingers, and he was reading through legal documents as casually as a man might read a magazine. He was quite a picture. Sansa didn't dare interrupt him.

She didn't have to. Less than thirty seconds, and he looked up at the girl with a warm smile on his mouth. Sansa found herself smiling back. “You look like you're feeling better.” She nodded. “I'm very glad to hear it. Just doing a little work...Are you hungry?”

Sansa's appetite had more or less disappeared since her father's death...the stress, the constant fear of life with the Lannister-Baratheons had left her shy as a bird at meals. The baby fat had melted off her cheeks and left her blue eyes looking sunken. Prison food hadn't improved this any and, in point of fact, she was a little gaunt. “I'm not sure.”

Petyr, though, just smiled, and returned his document to its case, rising smoothly and without the wine so much as tipping in the glass. His fingers found her wrist, and she flinched slightly, but the hold was loose and warm and soft. “I have plates set in the dining room. It would make me feel a good deal better if you would at least try to eat.” Sansa bit at her lip, but nodded. She had always striven to be obedient and obliging.

Wherever Petyr had ordered out from, it was not a corner Chinese restaurant. No aluminum and cardboard containers, the table was set elegantly for two with crystal water glasses and shining utensils. A choice of a duck breast stuffed with sage and pancetta, or salmon with roasted mushrooms and a wine sauce. The girl's mouth began to water in anticipation, and her host even pulled out her chair for her. Sansa might have blushed for it, were she not so suddenly _ravenously_ hungry. Sansa didn't think about nights at the Lannister table with Cersei needling her about plumping up; she didn't think about the lamb served in the prison cantina that was most definitely mutton. She thought only about each delicious, perfect bite, and how soft Petyr's voice was and the contrast of that to Joffrey, and that she would have been certain she was dead and in heaven, but for the lack of her family members around her.

Petyr actually seemed amused when the girl at last laid her fork down. “Do you want any more?” Sansa shook her head. “Are you sure?” She nodded. “Well, I'd hate for you to go hungry.”

“I think I'd pop...Mr. Baelish.” Sansa resettled her napkin along her lap, which gave her a moment to collect herself without looking at him. He never seemed to blink when his eyes were on her. “I want to thank you...for everything. Y-you've been so kind to me, and you didn't need to do all this.”

“Don't thank me just yet,” he assured her, rising from his chair. “There's one more thing.”

“I couldn't take anything else from you-” Sansa tried to protest, turning in her chair, but he had already disappeared into the kitchen, and returned nearly as quickly, holding a small plate in his hands.

“I remember hearing you were especially fond of these.” A lemon cake. Sansa's eyes bulged. Her lawyer set the plate down in front of her with a dessert fork, and the girl could have drooled. No bigger than her palm, perfectly frosted with a white glaze of sugar and a slice of candied lemon tucked to one side. “Of course, if you're too full, we can just-” He didn't finish, instead going rather wide-eyed himself as the girl enthusiastically tucked in. “Well....never mind, in that case.”

Sansa felt like she could have rolled back into the sitting room, and she really did not care. Being this free, this pampered, was like being _drunk_ – the light headed stage, where everything is joyous and lights dance. She flopped onto the soft sofa, laying on her side with her bare legs tucked beside her on the cushions, while Petyr brewed mint tea, and she smiled until her face seemed to hurt; well, it had been some time since the muscles of her face had had the exercise. He sat across from her in that leather armchair of his, lean and handsome in his dark green shirt. Sansa smiled freely at him for the first time since they'd met in that horrible penitentiary... “You're a saint, Mr. Baelish,” she almost purred, laying her head on one of the throw pillows. “I can't remember the last time I wasn't afraid. I owe you everything.”

“Sansa.” His voice was so serious that she sat up a little, blinking. “Whatever else happens, I _never_ want you to be afraid with me.”

She worried at her lower lip a little, turning it a darker red as her attorney calmly sipped his tea. “Would I be?”

“The Lannisters are powerful people, Cersei no less so.” His face was serious, and yet his eyes still had a glint to them, a certain cleverness that made Sansa stare into their dark, green depths. “When they set their sights on ruining someone, they usually succeed – I think you have ample evidence of that.”

Sansa's fingers tightened on the pillow, she slowly slid her legs back down to the ground. “Usually?”

She watched his trim mustache curve with his mouth as he smiled over his cup, and the girl swallowed a little. “Well, _usually_ , their victims don't have me for their legal council.”

“Please, Mr. Baelish, don't joke.”

“Petyr, Sansa, and I'm not joking. I'm very deathly serious.” He set the cup on the coffee table and leaned his elbow against his knee so that the heel of his palm could support his chin, small beard almost disappearing behind his fingers. “My plans for you are _entirely_ serious.”

Sansa hesitated. “Plans?

There was a silence – a long, full silence. Miss Stark felt nerves begin to grow in her stomach, but Petyr never blinked once, never gave any indication of unrest at all. He was making careful study of her face, and the girl had to look away, watching the steam rise from his cup and seeing the slight print where his lips had been on it the moment before. “You look tired.” His voice was so low, she almost didn't hear it. “Time for little girls to be in bed, I think.”

Sansa scoffed, her hands fussing in her lap. “I'm not a little girl, Mr. Bae- Petyr.”

His smile slowly widened, and she still did not look at him, could not. “Please, don't remind me.” _What did that mean_? “I'm afraid I need to be up early myself, so.” He stood and stretched out his palm to her. Sansa looked from his fingers to his face, to the patient, expectant smile that coated his features – and she took the proffered hand, slowly standing up before him. He kept her hand in his all the way up the stairs and did not release it even when they were standing before the guest door once again. “Remember, Sansa. Caution is good, but fear makes a man blind; a blind man makes stupid mistakes. You're not going to be blind – you're going to see everything. And the _Lannisters_ are going to be afraid of you.”

That scarcely seemed possible. “All I want is...is to have this horrible nightmare end, to go _home_.”

“Oh, I already promised you that,” he assured her, stepping just slightly closer. Sansa could smell the mint on his breath, and found herself looking at his lower lip and his beard. Before she could say another word, he leaned forward-

And pressed his lips to her soft cheek. Sansa was frozen.

“I wish you nothing but sweet dreams, Miss Stark.” Petyr let go of her hand and stepped away. His eyes lingered on her face a moment, but just as quickly, that moment ended, and he turned away and continued walking down the hall. Sansa watched him go and realized she now knew exactly where his bedroom was. That was a very odd thought.

And she didn't feel quite as drunkenly safe as before. It wasn't like with the Lannisters, yet....she felt like Hansel and Gretel, being fattened up only to be consumed. 


	3. Courthouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait between updates; this chapter has been ready for a while, but only just finally made it through beta. Number four is almost done, so I hope to crank that out tomorrow. If you've been waiting for the M rating to show up, you'll finally get that satisfaction in chapter four ;D This chapter, however, fulfills the promise of icky gross death, consider yourself tagged.

Sansa didn't leave the house for a week.

Most of the day, she slept. She remembered psychology classes in school, that this was most likely a sure sign of depression, but she really could not bring herself to care. (Was that a sign of depression as well?) After her gastronomous feasting of the first night, Sansa eased into more of a balance with her diet: not the stressed starvation of her time with the Lannisters, but more quiet nibbles here and there, enough to nourish, not to overwhelm. Petyr was gone in the afternoons most days, but Sansa didn't mind this. She reveled in the quiet. She read his books and felt her mind slowly relaxing. She cleaned nooks and corners, though he insisted a woman would be in each Wednesday to do that. Sansa didn't care, her abused mind  _demanded_ occupation, anything to keep from replaying the horror film that was her life in her skull over and over and over again. She filled an entire legal pad with drawings – some just doodles, others elaborate designs and portraits; and she woke one morning to find Petyr had left her a set of charcoal, sets of watercolors, and a large binder of high quality paper. Sansa put these away in her nightstand. She wasn't ready for nice things to express herself with just yet. Her soul was messy; it preferred ball-point pens whose ink would go dry and lined, yellow paper.

Things were different at night. Evenings, when Petyr returned from wherever it was he ventured (his law offices, Sansa guessed, but she sometimes suspected maybe not), just the slightest sign of weariness pinching the corners of his eyes, the two would begin to chat, quite affably. It got to the point where Sansa was  _glad_ to see him, would run down the stairs to greet him with smiles she was slowly remembering. Sometimes she felt like she did when she would greet her father at the door, and other times she felt like his little wife, and that thought was the stranger of the two – which surprised her a bit. She certainly did not want any man replacing her father.

Petyr smiled when she did, hung up his jacket and put his briefcase in its proper place, and talked with her. With her, and not at her, which was a nice change from her incarceration in prisons with and without bars. They talked about the books she was reading, and the ideas they were giving her, and he  _always_ asked questions. Mr. Baelish was  _fascinated_ by the turns her mind took; he prompted and argued her points, as a lawyer must, until Sansa was sure she had been entirely wrong in the first place – until she would catch the smile that would crook the corner of his mouth, and realize he was quite proud of her conclusions. She felt her shoulders beginning to broaden, no longer slumping forward and down, endeavoring to become invisible. She felt like a flower opening up now that the clouds had passed by. No man had ever really been interested in the thoughts inside her head before. She found it  _far_ more complimentary than any recalled comments on her face or body or grace or manners. 

Petyr told her scary stories as well: frightening truths about what the Lannisters were doing, the things the papers and news pundits were saying about her, the case the District Attorney was slowly mounting. On the first day, it had given Sansa the childish urge to hide under the huge, dark wood bed, but then she understood it. Mr. Baelish promised Sansa would not be blind. People who would see sometimes must see unpleasant things.  _He knows I'm strong enough to handle it_ . Sansa wished she knew that as well.

The first time she ventured out of doors, it was into his backyard, a half-wild expanse that sloped down to a softly trickling creek. The yard by the house was neatly trimmed, with all the proper flowers: roses and daphne and hydrangeas. But past a line of thin trees, wild blackberries grew; there was invasive ivy and stinging nettles, and the creek bed, with its smoothly worn soap stones and the music of its trickling voice. Sansa spent the greatest amount of time by the creek, and she slowly repaired.

Nine days into her stay, Sansa worked the dye into her hair.

Petyr did not smile when she came down the stairs, her fire tamped out with dirt, but his eyes were silver and examined her very,  _very_ careful. It seemed not a detail would escape his attention. “I'm going to the courthouse on Friday,” he said, voice low and just a bit gravelly. “It's in the middle of downtown, have you ever been?” Sansa shook her head no. “Well, it's become quite the trendy epicenter. It might do you some good to get out and see the world. Should you like to join me?” Sansa agreed that yes, she would.

 

* * *

 

 

No one looked at her, and it was amazing how  _good_ that felt. Anonymity had never been something Sansa sought out, but she had never  _appreciated_ it, either. When she was Sansa Stark the Innocent, she might or might not notice eyes lingering on her, but never bothered over it one way or another – unless it was from an attractive boy her age. When she was Sansa Stark the Dead, every gaze hurt. Every hating look from Lannister eyes, every pitying glance from the Tyrells was like a new bruise to her sallow skin. Now she was no one and nothing, and could slip through a crowd without anyone even noticing her at all, as though she really  _was_ dead. She hoped never to be noticed again.

Sansa's now brown hair had been tied loosely at the nape of her neck in a ponytail, and Petyr had brushed it back over her shoulder as he fixed a sunhat over her head. The sunglasses he would give her hung from the collar of his shirt. “Remember,” he told her, his voice a whisper in the parking garage. “If someone asks, what's your name?”

“Alayne.” She smiled at him. Alayne was going to be her suit of armor to carry her into battle. Alayne fit strangely, but Alayne was strong and unhurt – because Alayne was  _not_ Sansa.

“If something happens, just come back to the courthouse, tell the officers you're waiting for me. You have my card?”

Sansa nodded. “And your cell phone number, and everything.”

“Good girl.” The smirk that was lingering on his lips softened slightly. His lips parted as his fingers finally finished brushing back her hair. Sansa didn't stiffen, but she remained still, noticing her own breathing. “Still so soft...” He let the ends of her hair slip through his fingers like grains of sand, enraptured by the moment. She didn't need to clear her throat to wake him, his eyes snapped to her face all on their own – and the look there was hardened steel, the lawyer that was about to save her. “Remember, two o'clock.”

“Two o'clock, Petyr,” she nodded, and they had stepped out of the car.

The boutique Sansa had wandered to was small and trendy, and she let herself enjoy the numbing bliss of aimless shopping. It didn't bring the pleasure it used to, arm in arm with her mother, or with friend Jeyne, but it still had its own kind of niceness. She looked at silver hair clips, handmade earrings, luxury soaps and colognes. She found a leather-bound journal with the imprint of a wolf and thought how Arya would have enjoyed that, which left a bitter taste in her mouth. Sansa was feeling particularly bold: any time something reminded her of her old life, she was going to leave the shop. There were plenty of boutiques on the street, she could go to all of them if she had to. She made a purchase at this one anyway, and walked out with no more incident than that. She wondered if other people felt this weightless all the time, adrift in the universe, untethered to love or family – and strangely alright with the sensation. Anything that wasn't fear, terror, pain; oh, anything else at all was  _lovely_ . The entire day might have been enough of a success for Sansa to believe she had merely stepped out of a nightmare into a new life, that everything might be alright for the rest of time-

Except she walked into a clothing store, and very nearly vomited out of reflexive fear, like a puppy might in a cage.

Cersei Baratheon, all scowling and with anger brewing behind her eyes green like poison. And with her, loyal brother Jaime. They stood there as normally as any other shoppers in the store, and no one paid them any mind – which was insane! There were demons looking at a rack of ladies' wear, surely  _someone_ would notice that! Sansa practically ran to a rack of dresses and nearly attempted to burrow into them, as Arya used to do with the circular racks in department stores.  _He had been leering at her, whispering in her ear all the new toys he had gotten recently. Shackles and bars, some sacrilegious thing called a St. Andrew's cross, a cat o' nine – all for her, his favorite pet, and wasn't she just so lucky? He could whisper all these terrible things and still drink and eat at the garden party like he was merely discussing the croquet game being set up by his siblings across the sprawling yard._ It was a small shop, she could hear their voices clear as breaking glass even as she checked tags obsessively, as though her life depended upon it.

“Father will be done in the courthouse soon enough.”

“I can't believe they actually let that little  _bitch_ out on bai-”

“Cersei, people can hear you...”

“And he expects me to wait around like a good girl while he meets with the judge! It's as though I'm fifteen all over again.” The widow ripped a green neglige off a rack of women's sleepwear and held it up against her body for her brother to judge. “What do you think?”

The younger Mr. Lannister traced the bodice with the tip of one finger. “Something lacier, I think.” When she returned it to the rack, he continued, “You need to let this go-”

_Sansa knew better than to run. Running netted only punishments. Margaery was right over there with her grandmother, she'd distract him soon enough, Margaery always saved Sansa._

“Don't you  _ever_ say that to me,” she hissed, a little like a cobra, and this surprised Sansa not at all. “My  _son_ is dead. I will  _never_ let that go. And I am going to see that nasty little  _slut_ hang for it if it's the very last thing I ever-”

_Sansa ran anyway_ .

A shop girl popped up at Sansa's elbow, and she nearly ripped off a sale's tag in surprise. “Something you wanted to try on, miss?”

“ _This_ !” Sansa hands were shaking, she shoved whatever garment she had hold of into the sales associate's grasp with far too much enthusiasm. 

The girl seemed a bit surprised, but wordlessly led her customer to the changing stalls, hung with a heavy red curtain and a bit of cord. “Just let us know if you need anything.”

_Joffrey chased after her._

Sansa nodded, wordless, and disappeared into the stall. The terrified creature backed herself against the corner and  _shook_ , able to hear the Lannister twins more clearly by the moment; dear God, they were walking this way!

“I should be the one talking to the judge, not Father. How could a man look at a distraught, weeping mother and then refuse to rescind bail?”

Sansa could hear a dark chuckle from Jaime's throat. “You are a lot more attractive than Father, that's true.”

“He never listens to me. Why doesn't he ever listen to me? Do you like this blouse?”

“I don't know – and no, I don't.”

_He caught her by the row of shrubs that made the corner of the garden. So far away, she could barely hear the music of the party being piped through the speakers. Sansa was living in a technicolor nightmare, surrounded by flowers: pink and purple and blue, shaped like cups, like bowls, like gloves...He grabbed her by the throat and she lost her balance, crashing into the flowers, crushing some to the ground-_

“Neither do I, this place is hideous. Let's go.” Sansa didn't breath so that she could count their footsteps walking away. One, two, four, five...

There was a sharp rap on the side of the changing stall and the girl nearly jumped straight out of her skin. “Do you need a different size?” Just the shop girl; Sansa had to hold her throat, as it felt as though her heart meant to beat straight through her esophagus.

She glanced at the dress she grabbed; it was bright orange. She would have looked like a pumpkin. “N-no, thank you, I don't think it's quite my style.”

“I'd love to take a look at it.”

With hands that were still shaking, Sansa undid the latch of the cord and threw aside the curtain. The sales girl was actually taken aback by her pale appearance, like a heroin addict was shooting up in her dressing room. “I'm afraid I'm late for an appointment, but thank you anyway.” Without another word, she rushed out of the boutique.

Sansa almost didn't go back to the courthouse, terrified that the Lannisters would be waiting there. But she didn't know what else to do.  _If anything happens, come back to the courthouse_ , that's what Petyr had told her to do, and she wasn't about to be disobedient. The girl tore through the crowded streets, looking for the world like she had to reach her car before she got a parking ticket, but with a much greater fear driving her onward. 

_Joffrey had had his hands about her throat – and while it wasn't for the first time, this was worse. This was going to be the moment she died, like her father, like her mother, like her brothers and sister- “Stupid bitch,” he called her. “Ungrateful slut. Ugly who-” She suspected he was going to finish the word as “whore,” but he never got that far. His limbs shook violently, and at first Sansa only knew it from the feeling of his fingers fluttering against the column of her neck – but then she saw the rest. Foam flying to his lips, yellow and thick. Joffrey's eyes were wide and red and he seemed to be choking, choking, dying-_

She was out of breath when she reached the courthouse doors, working hard to keep from becoming hysterical with the stoic, unmoving officer on duty.

“P-please, sir, I need to see my lawyer – no, he's right upstairs – Petyr Baelish. I said,  _Petyr Baelish_ . No, he  _is_ my attorney, I have his card, see, I- No, I don't have my ID on me. You don't understand, this is an  _emergenc_ -”

“Alayne?”

Sansa turned and looked up at the mezzanine that stretched above her in the marble foyer of the courthouse: Petyr was looking down at her with his hands holding tight to the worn, oak rails, brows drawn together in concern. The girl almost ran up the stairs to get to him, and he hurried down to grab her. “The officer wouldn't let me up, I did what you told me, but-”

“Alayne, it's alright.” When the guard seemed about to protest, he was waved off. “This is my niece, Alayne.”

“She said she was your client.”

“She is – it's a family matter.”

“Without ID, she still can't come-”

“It's fine, we were leaving anyway.” Sansa had been doing her best to hide her trembling with his arm around her shoulder, but he shifted and slipped her hand around the crook of his elbow, so that he was walking her back toward the underground parking garage. It wasn't until they were sitting in the car and he had started the engine that he spoke again. “What happened.”

“Cersei Lannister.” She was too afraid to even stutter. “Her, and Jaime, I  _saw_ them.”

She saw Mr. Baelish's fingers flex against the steering wheel, but he really didn't betray much else. “Did they see you?”

Sansa shook her head. “I don't think so. I hid in the dressing room.”

Petyr actually  _laughed_ at that. Sansa felt the brutal urge to reach over and hit him, right in his smug, smirking mouth- “You  _are_ a clever girl, aren't you?” She still wanted to hit him; it felt patronizing, like an insult. She might have, but they were pulling out of the garage, and she knew better than to distract him while he drove. “Even if they had seen you....nothing would have happened. In public? And they wouldn't dare send their dogs all the way to my property.”

“You don't know that, Petyr, you don't know how they-”

“You're right, I  _don't_ know that. But I'm not going to waste time worrying about it. You're certain they didn't see you?”

Sansa wasn't going to lie, she never had lied, not about anything. “I'm not certain. But it seems unlikely.”

Petyr was silent for a moment, he nodded. “That's good enough.” His eyes flicked over to her, to her lap and her feet, a flash of green in the dark of the car; a paper shopping bag. “What's that?”

“What's what?”

“The bag at your feet.”

“Oh.” Sansa had forgotten she'd even been carrying it. She fumbled with the contents of the sack, palms slick with nervous sweat. “I bought something.”

“Obviously, that's why I gave you money. But what did you get?”

She bit her lip. “...It's a surprise.”

“I want to see it right now.” His voice was hard, steely. Sansa knew if she looked at him now, his eyes would have been more grey than green. She didn't argue, lifting it out of the sack and unwrapping the tissue paper that covered it. At a red light, the attorney took it from her hands – and stared, slack jawed. Sansa felt absurdly proud; she'd never shocked him before then.

It was a pair of silver cufflinks in the shape of mockingbirds, tied with a pink, satin ribbon. Petyr said nothing the rest of the drive home.

 

* * *

 

 

She was losing track of time.

Occasionally, Sansa would turn on the television in the basement, where the rec room was. This would work to at least give her a schedule to plan around, but she quickly found it boring. Comedies were insipid to her now, dramas were hopelessly childish rather than fraught. To give herself a project, Sansa took out all of Petyr's shirts from his closet and began resewing the buttons. They were more secure than Fort Knox when she was finished with them. She'd leave the television on as she worked, and it switched between overly-sentimental documentaries, and shopping networks that had plump, southern women as hosts.

“I didn't know you were so into dinosaurs,” Petyr remarked to her one day, looking down at the work in her lap.

“I'm not,” was Sansa's reply.

“Do you want that fire opal ring, is that why you keep this channel going?” was the question on another.

“No.”

“Tell me you don't believe JFK was abducted by aliens.”

Sansa managed a small smile. “I wasn't even listening. Is that what's on?”

At night, when she couldn't sleep (and she often couldn't sleep), she slipped the paper and watercolors out of her nightstand drawer. Some of the time she stared at them, trying to figure out what image the paper wanted released from inside of it; other times she worked, patiently, feverishly.

And on another sleepless night, she was desperately trying to lull herself from her nightmares with warm milk when Petyr found her. Neither one asked why the other was up. It was a needless question.

Instead, he took her hands while the milk simmered in a pot on the stove. “Sansa. We're going back to the courthouse soon.”

“We?”

He nodded. “We may never need to go to trial, we may have the charges dropped-” Sansa stiffened with hope, “-but the DA wants something out of it, too.”

“W-what does he want?” She registered, vaguely and in the back of her mind, that the milk was going to burn.

But Petyr's thumb was running gently over her knuckles. She didn't know if he meant it to be a soothing gesture or not, and she wasn't sure if it succeeded in that. Perhaps he just wanted to touch her. Sansa could appreciate that. “You were with the Baratheons a long time. Joffrey even took you to the investment firm, isn't that right?” She nodded. “Then you know what Cersei was doing there.”

She tried to pull away, begged off on the excuse that, “Petyr, it really will burn-”

“Let it burn.”

“You'll  _ruin_ your saucepan!”

“I don't even know what a saucepan is for.”

She huffed. “Generally, sauces.”

“I told you, I'd never have you afraid with me.”

“Well, I  _am_ afraid – of them, of  _her_ . If you want me to testify against her, if that's what all this is about-” The flash in his eyes confirmed that for her; that he was  _proud_ she understood! It was a sickening stone in her stomach, not a delight. “I-I didn't see that much!”

“You saw enough – to tip the jury into finding her guilty of inside trading, of-”

“Please, don't make me do this.”

“ _Would you rather face the murder charges_ ?” In the dark of the kitchen, his voice was hard, as cold as the tiles beneath her feet. Sansa stared at him, with blue eyes like sodalite. She felt like she was being blackmailed, and also, like he was trying to save her. She hated him, she hated him, how could he do this to her – he saved her, he kept her here in this beautiful house, let no one touch her – oh, she hated his guts! – and he was her savior, her cruel, villainous,  _perfect_ savior.

“...I'll do it,” she said in a voice that was cool and clear, and just what he wanted to hear. “If you let me take the milk off the stove.”

There was a silence – and Petyr released her hands. “Good girl.” She almost snorted. “Good” was the last thing Sansa felt.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why don't sharks eat lawyers?”

Sansa laughed half out of surprise. “What?”

Petyr smiled at her, his chin on his palm, his elbow on the armrest of the bench. “Why don't sharks eat lawyers?” he repeated.

Sansa had no sense of time any longer, and so she did not know if days, weeks, or decades passed before they returned to the courthouse. She did know that most of the dye had washed out of her hair, but Petyr had said that was alright. It was alright, because they would soon have the District Attorney on their side, and to that effort, they were sitting on a bench, waiting outside his office door. “Stannis Baratheon,” the nameplate said, in gold lettering.

Sansa smiled and sipped at her water bottle.  _He's trying to make me more comfortable_ . “No idea,” she answered.

“Professional courtesy.” Sansa laughed, and Petyr smiled at her, calmly, warmly – like he took true  _pleasure_ in the way she laughed. She was laughing when the door opened and a gruff, older gentlemen bid them come in. 

“Davos,” Petyr nodded at him with an affable smile, one that made Sansa's stomach turn – because it was  _not_ the kind of smile he gave to her, it was the kind given to the rest of the world. He was her lawyer now, not her friend, and that was what she needed – but strange to find she missed him (the him she supposed, thought,  _prayed_ was real) when he was that other man. “How's the hand?”

“The same as the last time you asked,” he muttered, but had considerably gentler manners with the girl. “Miss Stark. I was very sorry to hear about your father. Good man, he was.”

Sansa looked down at her black shoes. The feeling was real, but she knew Petyr would have been proud of the gesture nonetheless. “Thank you,” she whispered, demure and non-threatening as possible.

She only knew that that was not the District Attorney by the fact that Petyr had addressed him by the wrong name. She was left to guess that the man himself was the one sitting behind the desk, the one who did not rise to meet them – but did deign to shake her attorney's hand across the desk. Stannis Baratheon was younger than his Assistant DA, which Sansa thought was a little strange, but she noted no tension between the two gentlemen. On the contrary, Davos – Mr. Seaworth, he was later addressed – seemed enthusiastic to help his superior. Sansa might have been nervous that this was Joffrey's uncle, that he would want to see justice pressed more than anybody, but if he bore the hatred for her the Lannisters did, it never showed on his countenance. Mr. Baratheon had the hardest face Sansa had ever seen, like it was shaped of iron. His mouth was constantly firm and scowling, and his blue eyes seemed able to pierce straight through whatever they looked at. Petyr never withered under that gaze, but Sansa felt distinctly uncomfortable.

“Well!” Petyr was still smiling, his ankle crossed over his knee so that he looked very relaxed and easy. “You called us, Stannis. What did you want to discuss?” (Sansa couldn't believe his frippery. If it were up to her, she would have been on her knees pleading for mercy; Petyr led one of the most powerful men in the state around by the nose.)

Baratheon had been sitting back in his chair, like a king on his throne, dissatisfied with the court around him. Now he sat up, rubbed at the black and grey stubble that lined his chin. “I seem to recall you mentioning a deal, Mr. Baelish. A plea deal, perhaps?”

“I'm certain I never said anything about  _pleas_ , Stannis.”

“What other kind of  _deal_ did you think I was going to take? This is a murder investigation, not a law school course.”

The grin on Petyr's face never faltered. His client felt sick. “Sansa,” he addressed, barely looking at her, mostly meeting the stare of the District Attorney. “Come sit by me, my dear.” She obediently sat in the chair next to him, hands in her lap, eyes down. “There's a good girl. Now, Stannis – are you going to tell me  _that_ is the girl who murdered your nephew? All of five nine and with barely an ounce of muscle?”

“This has nothing to do with him being my nephew and  _everything_ to do with the law. You don't need muscle to shove foxglove into someone's mouth.”

Sansa wanted to open her mouth and say she did no such thing – but Petyr was paid to speak, and speak he did. “Oh, I would argue that you most certainly  _do_ ! Besides...” He licked his thumb to help him flip through the documents he piled onto his lap. “I seem to recall the coroner's report ruling out the flowers found at the scene as the source for the digitalis ingestion...”

Stannis' eyes twitched. “My detectives seem to think otherwise.”

“And that's fine! But when I call the coroner to the stand and ask him about it, who do you think the jury is going to believe? Or when I call the next medical witness? Or the next one? Or the next o-”

“We're not in court now, I get the point.”

“Here's the crux of the matter.  _You_ ,” he pointed, “have been drooling to get your sister-in-law indicted for insider trading and tax evasion for over a year.” Stannis' fingers drummed against his desk, the only agreement Baelish would receive. “ _I_ have the most delightful witness that can make that happen for you,” and he indicated Sansa.

“....You want me to grant immunity in a  _murder_ case in exchange for information on  _fraud_ ?”

“Oh,  _I_ don't want you to do anything, Mr. Baratheon. But if you go through with this theatrical farce, I'm going to make it the most painful case you've ever tried.” He rubbed his hands together, eyes gleaming and in his element. “I'm going to paint such a picture for you: a beautiful, sobbing girl suddenly devoid of family and friends – watching the only boy she ever loved die right in front of her.”

Stannis snorted and actually addressed Sansa. “If Joffrey was your only love, then I feel even sorrier for you.”

The girl's jaw fell open, she stammered. “I-I don't-”

“Listen, Baelish. However sad a murderer is, she's  _still_ a murderer.”

“You don't believe she's a murderer anymore than you believe Joffrey is your nephew.” Sansa almost choked on her water.

“It doesn't matter what I believe, what matters is the evidence my detectives give me.”

“Then your detectives should be paying the taxpayers back their salaries. Look,” Petyr uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, eyes glittering. “You've got an election to plan for sooner than you'd like.” Stannis ground his jaw. “Go for the murder case, and you'll look like the vindictive uncle who took this poor, abused girl – beautiful, barely a woman – and tried to blame her without proper cause. You'll make her even more of a victim, and voters will remember that, and they'll remember you failed to get a conviction.” He pressed on before Stannis could interrupt. “Because you won't get it, I can promise you that! And I haven't, in general, lied to you about that in the past, have I?”

There was a long silence, except for the grinding of Stannis' teeth. Mr. Seaworth glanced suspiciously and nervously between the two parties. “And the alternative is...?” the DA at last prompted.

“You become Stannis the Stalwart! Stannis the Just!”

“Your titles are less interesting to me than your ideas.”

Petyr was grinning. Sansa stayed silent. “You become the man who was unafraid to tackle the biggest investment firm in the state, and is so ethical he'd confront his own sister-in-law on charges of corruption and fraud. And it would be a battle you  _could_ win. Voters like to see people who get advantages they don't taken down a peg; they'll remember that, Stannis.”

“Whatever it is you seem to think about me,” the man was sitting tall, and he looked imperial and untouchable. “I'm not doing this job to be popular or to worry about reelection. I'm here to serve justice for the citizens.”

“And you do an excellent job of that, Stannis – but really. Would indicting Sansa Stark be serving justice?” Petyr looked at her, and Sansa blinked for a moment; it was enough to make her eyes dark and shining, her countenance soft, a mix of fright and hope. Mr. Baratheon sighed through the nose. “Whatever happened at that garden party – didn't he  _deserve_ it? Isn't  _that_ justice?”

Stannis pursed his mouth at his adversary. “It's not for us to decide which victims deserved to live and die, Mr. Baelish. That's what the justice system is  _for_ .”

Petyr laughed slightly, standing and offering his hand once again. “You never change, Stannis.”

“Nor do you, Petyr.”

“Do we have a deal? You quietly let it be known you're dropping the charges against Miss Stark while you pursue better leads – and we play ball with you against dear, sweet Cersei.”

Stannis considered, still rubbing his chin and looking at Sansa, rather than Petyr's outstretched hand. She tried hard not to squirm under that hard, blue gaze. “...I want an agreement I won't be seeing lawsuits about wrongful imprisonment and mental anguish.”

“Then you had better  _really_ try to make me happy.”

“Ugh.” Stannis took her lawyer's hand and nodded. “I really hate seeing you.”

“I'm flattered. You can have Mr. Seaworth here email me when you're ready for Sansa's testimony. Come, my dear.” Sansa stood, proud of how smooth her bearing was, her entire lack of shivering or trembling in the slightest. “Let's get you out of here, hm?” Sweeter words were never spoken.

 


	4. Bedroom

The first half of the drive back to the property was silent. Petyr was no longer smiling, but Sansa didn't think he was annoyed; in point of fact, she found the change to be a relief. What Petyr offered Stannis Baratheon wasn't a smile – it was a grin made of oil and false promises. It turned her stomach. She'd much rather see him quiet, his mind whirling. The girl alternated looking at her attorney and staring out the window of the car.

Once they got off the highway for the suburban roads, Sansa found her voice again. “Petyr.” He did not look at her, eyes on the road, and only grunted to show he had heard her. “If I had killed Joffrey, would you still be doing all this?”

“Absolutely.”

His complete lack of hesitation surprised her. “But I'd be guilty.”

“I find guilt and innocence to be restrictive, limited concepts. After all, everyone is guilty of  _something_ , aren't they?”

“But not of murder.”

“Arguable.” His eyes just barely flicked in her direction as he switched on his turn signal. “If I were debating that case, I would go philosophical: that all those who do not do their utmost to help their fellow man – say aid work in Africa, or wherever – are, in their own way, complicit in murder, the same as watching a mugger shoot down an investment banker on the street without acting.”

Sansa felt unreasonably frustrated with this (rather stupid, to her mind) response, her hands twisting in her lap. “Petyr, we're not talking about crazy hypothetical situations!”

“We absolutely are.” He turned to face her for a full two seconds, and it made Sansa's stomach flip, though she was unsure why. It was the flat, even grey of his gaze. It was disconcerting. “Because you  _didn't_ kill Joffrey. And even if you did, pardon my French, you'd deserve a fucking medal, not a prison sentence.” The girl was quiet for a long moment, and so he pressed her. “Would you rather be in jail?”

Sansa huffed. “Of  _course_ not.”

“But you do feel guilty. This is all internalized regret, isn't it?”

“I'm not Sigmund Freud, I don't know.”

“Of  _course_ you know.” His grip on the steering wheel tightened, and for a moment, Sansa thought he meant to pull the car over. “Good girls don't fall in with abusive pricks like Joffrey Baratheon, isn't that it? And good girls are loyal to a fault, and good girls don't wish their abusers dead. Is that what all this is about?” 

_Why do I feel like I'm about to cry_ ? Sansa bit at her lip. “It is not!”

“I  _forbid_ you to go soft on me now,” he told her, and she wasn't sure if she was relieved when they pulled onto the familiar street that led to the house. “Your father probably told you a lot of stories about justice being blind, and right overcoming wrong. Stannis and I tainted that sweet picture of the justice system, didn't we?” He did not demand a response for a moment, pulling into the driveway. He put on the brake and turned off the engine, but made no move to enter the dark garage, instead turning to the girl. “Look at me, Sansa.” 

Her chin was tilted down, but Sansa just managed to flick her blue eyes to look up at her lawyer and her accuser. If she had been able to see the change that came over his face just by her  _looking_ at him, she would have been amazed, but of course that was impossible for her to gauge. All the same, Petyr gathered his focus as though she did nothing at all, and his voice was a quiet hiss in the shadowy garage. “ _I don't care that we did_ .” Sansa wanted to look away again, but found she could not. “Do you want to know why? Because your father  _lied_ to you.” She opened her mouth to protest any defamation of her father, but the man pressed on. “Life  _isn't_ just, or right, or beautiful. In reality, it is the worst of us who win and survive. Are you angry?” She refused to answer, but her blue eyes were hot, and she chewed a little more aggressively at her lip. “Good! I want you to be angry. Because that's  _reality_ . I did not get you this far to see you  _waste_ yourself in a women's correctional institution. You want to be the bitch of some queen dyke while you languish away in prison?”

That shocked her into speaking. “Petyr, that's a horrible thing to say!”

“I won't let you waste yourself out of this idiotic, misplaced sense of guilt. Not when you could be so much  _more_ .”

Sansa blinked rapidly, unsure of what to say, unsure of what he was talking about. “...Like what?”

“Like  _everything_ .” He must have unbuckled his seat belt without her notice, for he reached across the front seat and crashed his mouth down onto hers. Sansa might have squirmed, but she was in far too much shock. Petyr was kissing her. Her lawyer was kissing her. The man who had practically been raised under her mother's roof, the man who would have loved to have been her father (but wasn't, oh thank God, wasn't) was kissing her. Those last two designations mattered less, oddly enough, though she had no idea why;  _Petyr_ was kissing her. 

It had been a long time since Sansa was kissed, really kissed. Joffrey still pawed at her, but he hadn't kissed her in ages. He'd nip and bite at her throat or collarbone, but his mouth never met hers, and she had been happy about that then. Before, she had thought he was the best kisser, all insistence and wild passion, but no, Sansa now changed her mind. Petyr's lips weren't thin and wet like Joffrey's. They were firm and dry, and somehow  _intensely_ more masculine. He smelled nicer, his breath tasted like mint as opposed to cheap beer, and the wet press of his tongue at her lips didn't feel like an eel trying to choke her, the way Joffrey did. He just lightly flicked at her mouth, and she opened up beneath him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Petyr's tongue  _teased_ at her, it did not  _invade;_ like he was coaxing her tongue out to play – and it did, it responded without her consciously willing it at all, coming to explore him. She had no idea that her hands were gripping the smooth silk of his shirt, she had no idea that she hadn't breathed in far too many seconds. Sansa only came awake again when Petyr's mouth disengaged with her own, and she almost  _whimpered_ from the loss ( _So long, it's been so long since I felt this nice, this safe, since I felt someone's arms around me, I_ -). She caught sight of Petyr's face, and his pupils were huge in the darkness. She was actually a little surprised to see how heavily he was breathing, the flush of his face, the dampness of his lower lip – and that that could be her doing, that could have been from her tongue sweeping against his lip. She wanted to taste him again, to see if he really was like mint, or if that had been the desperation of her mind. She wanted and deserved every ounce of comfort she could get her hands on, and at that moment, all sense of guilt had completely vanished. She didn't even register the thought of how her mother would have scolded her, or her father would have been disappointed. Who cared? They weren't there for her, and  _Petyr_ was, and he  _kissed_ her.

Baelish said nothing – until his fingers found the automatic lock, and pulled at the button. The doors could be opened now. They stared at one another's faces for another moment in the dark – and then opened the car doors. They walked into the house without a word.

 

* * *

 

 

Petyr didn't cook much; well, Sansa had never seen him cook at all. She had no idea if he knew how. Most of his meals came from the freezer, things ordered from restaurants and carefully saved for later. His kitchen was  _stocked_ with fresh foods – eggs, milk, fruits, vegetables, even choice cuts of meat and fish – but Sansa was the only one who seemed to make any use of them. Otherwise, if they ate at home, the food was cooked in large aluminum trays in the oven. Good, but a little impersonal. Tonight, Sansa was chopping different items up to make into a salad to go with the pre-made meal. 

Petyr was not with her. He was looking over papers in the dining room – drinking. Not wine this time, he had gotten out the good Irish whiskey, which Sansa knew to be his favorite. It made her a little nervous. His brain had to be particularly frazzled to warrant that. She wasn't sure if he was reading through all those documents spread across the tabletop so much as looking at them. Sansa sat on the counter and waited for the timer to go off on the oven; something her family would have scolded her for, but Petyr never cared about.

She called to him from that spot in the kitchen. “Have you ever defended a guilty person?”

“By what definition?”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Have you ever defended a person whom you knew had committed the crime they were being charged with.”

There was a soft sigh, the scraping of a chair against the wood floor, and Petyr was leaning in the doorway of the kitchen. Sansa thought about hopping off the counter top, but as he said nothing about it, she did not. “It wouldn't matter if I knew.”

The girl's brow furrowed. “Why not?”

“Because the sheer beauty of the American justice system is that everyone is innocent  _until_ the prosecuting attorney proves otherwise, whatever anyone else knows or doesn't know; and that  _everyone_ is entitled to, and must be given, a spirited defense. If I was asked to defend Osama bin Laden, it would be my duty to do so with everything I had.”

Sansa's mouth twitched toward a smile in spite of herself. There was something pretty about that. “How did you know Mr. Baratheon would go with your plan? Wasn't it a risk?”

“No risk at all. Despite what Frank Capra would have you believe, fighting a battle you cannot win is not noble. It's idiotic; worse, its  _irresponsible_ .”

“That's not an answer.”

He strode over to her with languid, lazy steps, taking a piece of apple off the cutting board and popping it into his mouth. Sansa watched the movement with more intensity than perhaps was advisable. “Baratheon has a duty to save the taxpayers money whenever possible. So fighting battles he cannot win sounds pretty, but it won't get him re-elected.”

“He said he doesn't care about that.”

Petyr snorted. “Of  _course_ he cares.” His fingers brushed a lock of still-dark hair behind her ears, and his green eyes went just a little foggy. Sansa's lips parted. “People aren't as noble as you think they are, sweetling. They care about defeats.”

Sansa's eyes lingered along his thin wrist, the tendons that showed through the skin. “Have you defended any murders?”

“A couple,” he murmured.

“Grand larceny?” He nodded. “Assault? Manslaughter?”

“All of the above.”

“W-what about rapists?”

Petyr paused, eyes looking thoughtful. “...No, I don't think so. I can't think of any.”

Sansa made a bold move; she gripped his wrist, the one still raised by her ear, with her hand, holding him in place. She didn't feel particularly bad about biting at her lower lip or widening her eyes in a begging gesture. Moreover, she didn't think he'd want her to feel bad. “Would you promise me something?”

Mr. Baelish was transfixed, his voice very low. “Perhaps.”

“Promise you won't defend any rapists? At least, as long as you know they're actually guilty. If they didn't do it...that's fine, then, that's good.”

The corner of his mouth ticked up in a smile. “Alright.”

Sansa breathed a heavy sigh of relief, fingers falling away from the man's wrist. He seemed disappointed by the gesture. “I have another question – about what you said earlier.”

Baelish at last pulled his hand away from her mottled hair. “What is it?”

Sansa hesitated, but only momentarily. “You said there was nothing beautiful in the world – but then you said the American justice system was beautiful.”

The man snorted, almost rolled his eyes. “Well, I was lying.”

“About which?”

“The first one. Of course there are beautiful things in the world.”

She hesitated again, and wondered why she said anything at all. “Like what?”

He was staring at her. Sansa regretted opening her mouth, regretted everything; regretted letting him kiss her, regretted going into the boutique and seeing Cersei Lannister, regretted agreeing to go out with Joffrey, regretted the time she called Arya “horse-faced-”

“You are the most beautiful thing there is, Sansa.”

The Stark girl froze, like a prey animal in the sights of a predator. She could not move under the look Petyr was giving her. Her breathing was pained and shallow. “What?”

“You. Nothing like you exists anywhere else.”

“There are lots of pretty girls in the world.”

“Who cares about pretty girls? They aren't  _you_ .”

She looked up at him at last, at the gaping, hungry stare in his eyes. Breathing became more painful. “But, um, you...m-my mother-”

Petyr's lithe, warm, dry hands framed her face, and she almost leaned into his touch. “Not like you. And you're sitting on my counter top.”

Sansa's breath brushed against his hands; she knew it did, she could see him twitch every time her exhalation touched his wrists, like that alone was a delicious torture. “Do you want me to get down?”

“I want you – all ways.”

Sansa's blue eyes closed, her lips parted further, like she was deliberately tempting him; she wondered if she was, and didn't know it? “D-dinner might burn.”

She could feel him smile that smug smirk of his, even without seeing it. “I could take it out of the oven.”

The girl swallowed, thought for a moment – nodded. “That might be alright.”

His right hand twitched against her cheek. “Might it?”

Sansa licked her lips and nodded again. “Mm.”

There was a long silence – then his hands moved from off her face. Sansa kept her eyes closed, but she could hear the oven door opening, heard the thud of the heavy aluminum against the stove top. Then Petyr's hands were at her hips and she gasped, eyes flying open. The look on his face took her breath away; Petyr, looking hungry, looking  _wild_ , without a word or a motion. She had a fleeting thought that she could have asked him to do  _anything_ in that moment, and he would have done what she wanted, without hesitation – murder, arson, or getting on his knees and kissing his way up her calf and thigh...The notion of such power was  _distressingly_ arousing. Sansa's hands slid to his shoulders of their own accord.

Baelish pulled the girl from off the counter so that she was flush against him; his fingers dug into her hips and tickled slightly. All the same, he did not immediately kiss her, which was what Sansa was expecting. He almost looked...nervous. Overwhelmed. Their mouths hovered near one another, but for the time being, nothing happened. After a silence, he said, “The kitchen isn't very comfortable.”

“No, it isn't.”

“Perhaps we should go someplace else.” Sansa nodded. They stood there a moment more – and then his hand knit with hers and he pulled her into that lounge room, to the soft, suede sofa. Petyr's mouth was softer on hers now, less hurried. He seemed to want to plot this course with great care. Even so, one hand went to her shoulder and pressed downward, trying to usher her onto the couch. Sansa's knees wouldn't bend, and he didn't force the issue for several moments, too interested in trading kisses, in threading his hands through her red hair. When they broke to breathe, his eyes looked green and glassy, and a very strange thought flashed through the girl's mind:  _I could do anything_ . It was the most heady and exciting notion she'd ever had. The most powerful lawyer in the state held her future in his hands, and none of that mattered, because  _she_ was the one in control. Petyr was speaking again. “You don't want to sit down, then?”

She had never felt this way with Joffrey, like she had any kind of power in a situation. She'd never really felt this way  _ever_ before. She had no idea if that was how relationships were  _supposed_ to work, if her mother felt similarly with her father – but she really didn't care. Sansa only knew she  _enjoyed_ it. She ran her index finger over the small triangle of his beard. “I don't.”

For a moment, Sansa thought she could hear him purr, the fingers of her free hand weaving at the hairs near his temple, where the wings of grey were. So  _distinguished_ . She had no idea she liked it, but the slickness between her legs was a dead giveaway. “What  _do_ you want, Sansa?” His voice was so husky, she almost grinned.  _That's me, I did that._ She didn't want this to stop.

Her lips brushed his, and she could feel him leaning into the touch. Hers, all hers. God, it was so... “I...” She kissed him more fiercely, just barely touched her tongue to his lips and felt him buckle under her hands. “Want to go upstairs.”

“Upstairs...” The repeated word was a whisper against her lips. “...I'm not sure that's a good idea.”

Both her hands were in his hair now, it gave her leverage to part her mouth against his and feel their tongues dance together – and something else, too. A hard press against her stomach. She had seen Joffrey a few times, he'd made her fist her hand against him so that he could use it to his satisfaction, but it had always been more revolting than arousing. She wanted to see Petyr, though, wanted to know how he compared to her boy prince... _Petyr isn't a prince._ She liked that about him. “I think it is.”

His mouth slowly pulled from hers with a damp sound, his breathing hard. Sansa liked that, too. “I might not be able to stop.”

Sansa barely had to blink before she knew the answer. “I don't want you to stop, Petyr.”

If she contemplated the moment later, she might have thought it was her saying his name that drove him over the edge; that made him wrap his arms about her torso and crush her to him, devouring her mouth with an insane hunger. The girl would have expected to deconstruct this experience from every possible angle, after the fact – yet that never happened. Sansa did not pour over stumbling up the winding staircase with her attorney-cum-lover. She did not dwell on how his hand fiddled with the door to the guest room,  _her_ room, until she shoved it off and dragged him toward the door she knew was his. She did not even reflect on the first time she entered Mr. Baelish's bedroom (a cool, dark space, with black bed linens to match the black leather headboard, a desk, a wardrobe and shelves, and little else, save a mockingbird hung in hammered silver on one wall). Girlish Sansa might have done such a thing, made a mental scrapbook of her first time. Womanly Sansa was content to experience, to savor, and then to create new, exciting memories. 

Though this would certainly be among them; the bedroom was chilly, a refreshing shock to her hot skin, but enough so that, for a moment, she expected her breath to fog in the air. Petyr had paused behind her, his hands still fitted at her waist, his breath waving locks of her darkened hair over one shoulder. She wondered if he was still nervous? The arousal pressed to her back indicated he was less nervous than he was  _enticed_ by the young woman who had just charged her way into his inner-sanctum. Sansa's fingers found his at her sides. “Is this ethical?”

“Pardon?” He very well may not have heard her, busy planting kisses to the slope of her neck. Sansa's blue eyes closed and she hummed a bit of repressed pleasure.

“Ethical...a lawyer sleeping with his clients.” Petyr's laugh ghosted over her shoulder, a husky thing from his lusts. Sansa's red brows furrowed. “What?”

“Nothing, it's just-” His kiss lingered at her throat before he slowly turned her around to face him. His eyes were still very green, though less glassy. Far more... _hot_ . They burned emerald in his face. The tip of Sansa's tongue darted out to taste where his lips had just pressed against her own. “You don't know me very well.”

The girl still look consternated. “I'm not sure what that has to do with anything.”

“ _Ethics_ concern me less than  _results_ .” 

Her breath left her in a short gasp as his mouth bent once more to suck upon her neck – but this time with additional nips of his teeth.  _Will he leave marks?_ She wanted him to leave marks. She used to wear turtlenecks or wrap scarves around herself to hide Joffrey's suckling, bruising attentions from her family. With Petyr, she wanted to display his mark of ownership like a proud brand, a tattoo she had designed and placed herself. She intended to similarly mark him before the evening was over. “What result were you looking for...”

The attorney's breath was erratic at best, shallow now, and Sansa could see him losing himself to the ancient instincts of _man_ coming out to play in the continuation of the species. One of his hands was leaving her waist and stretching oh-so-slowly toward the apex of her thighs, waiting to be stopped at any moment. “Whatever you wished, Miss Stark.”

She had no idea what she wanted, but she felt she would know it when she found it. It was for this reason she wrapped her hands around her protector's neck once more, let his fingers lift the hem of her black skirt to play against the soft skin of her thigh, the near-invisible downy hairs that trailed up it, to where her legs and pelvis met- The girl gasped into his mouth, which only allowed his tongue better access. Oh, this was right, this was _so right_ in its very wrongness, as if the world simply did not understand its own necessities. The experienced leading the innocent, corrupting and defiling – but only fools would see it so black and white. Sansa was sure, she _knew_ , she was corrupting him as much as he was corrupting her, in her own pure and simple ways. Her attorney's fingers played over the smooth cotton of her undergarments, rubbing her through the cloth and succeeding in soaking it through as well as eliciting shocked, pleased gasps from the girl. Sansa's fingers slipped back around from his neck, smoothing along his tie and holding him by it like a lead. It was perfect – he had power and so did she. She felt like she understood _everything_ , and everything seemed much more simple than it ever had before.

Sansa didn't know she had wanted silk ties between her fingers until she had them, did not know she would experience a pulsing, erotic feel from pulling her soon-to-be lover even closer by his and quickly untying it with deft fingers. Petyr was moaning into her mouth, the bottom of his throat exposed by the opened button of his dress shirt. The young woman backed up and the man stepped with her, reluctant to part from her lips for even a moment, moving in an intricate dance even as his fingers slipped beneath the elastic of her panties. Sansa had either end of his tie wrapped around her fists so that only about six inches of the dark silk remained between her hands; this she looped over a hook that might have otherwise been a resting place for a bathrobe, but tonight could bear some of her weight as the girl presented herself like a meal to be consumed. It sounded heavenly, to give up that control for a moment and simply allow life to happen around her, to trust Petyr's hands and lips and tongue. Mr. Baelish paused only in enraptured astonishment, taking her in and breathing heavily. Sansa's blouse had been pulled free of her skirt, her long, dark hair hung about her face in tangles, she was a vision of sensual beauty, as if his reward for proper sacrifices to the mercurial gods. “Petyr...” She whispered his name teasingly in the half-dark of the bedroom, easing a foot forward to catch him just above the knee and pull him closer. “I didn't want you to stop...”

“You...” The sharp tongued attorney was wordless in front of this display. Sansa submissively offered herself up to his approval, but her flashing blue eyes told a different story – that the power was all in her hands, wrapped as they were with his tie, and maybe she knew it and maybe she didn't. His cautious nature screamed to slow down, to tread carefully; his biology was straining his trousers fit to break the seams, and that was the side of him that was winning when Sansa carefully pulled him closer. Her skirt rucked up about her hips, her mouth opening beneath his own like a fruit, there was only a few thin, easily permeated barriers between them. She would be able to feel his hardness now, with her legs wrapped around his hips and his hands supporting her by gripping at her bottom. She would feel –  _intimately –_ the press and gentle rocking of him against her. He could feel, more dully, the heat of her body, but not the waiting damp that was all and entirely for  _his_ benefit. The lawyer caught his charge's lower lip and sucked greedily. He was becoming hungry for sensation,  _starved_ for her. 

It was only when he felt like he was going to fuck her right there against the wall that he pulled back slightly; not that it would have been bad, it would have been  _perfect_ . The confluence of two beings pulled inexorably to one another, desperate in their passion and their absolute  _need_ to consummate – but that could wait. Sansa might still have some virginal fantasies about first-time sex, and Petyr didn't want to spoil  _too_ much for her. Instead, with the serious control of one leading the dance, he pulled the tie from off the coat hook, watched it twist out of her fingers and supported her back as he turned and half-dropped her onto the bed. Sansa's legs didn't leave his form, they merely accommodated his shifting, his torso stretching over her so he could reach into his nightstand. The girl heard a crinkling sound and grabbed at her partner's wrist. “Petyr, please, I want to feel everything.”

Baelish held the prophylactic between two lithe fingers; he pulled back toward her slightly with a confused look painted on his sharp face. “What?”

The girl rolled her hips upward against him, so that his eyes closed and a moan escaped his lips. “I want to experience  _everything_ . Please?” She nuzzled at his nose, so that his mouth parted again and her tongue darted out to touch his own. She wondered how much she could get out of him when she was like this, beneath him. “In the morning we can go to the pharmacy and get a pill, and I promise after that I'll behave, but just this  _one time_ ...”

Petyr's hand was shaking, he was only able to stop it by gripping at the girl's hip, and even then, he didn't know if he was pressing her down or pulling her closer. “You're being very foolish.”

“I know...” She batted her red eyelashes at him, let the low light play over her blue eyes, and the man sank. “But I can trust you, can't I?”

“You shouldn't.”

“Why? Don't you trust me?” Her hair spread like an auburn fan over his duvet, her lips red and full from being kissed, one hand trailing along her full, perfect breast – oh no, he didn't trust her at all, but the man just  _did not care_ .

Petyr's mouth sank against her own, he groaned at the way she kissed him back, so fully, so  _devotedly_ . “I don't believe you will behave...but you can always be properly punished...” Sansa gasped at the warning, leaned up to nip at his ear slightly, and the man totally relented. Aching, timeless moments, passages of actions, went by with rolling hips and searching mouth, fingers pulling the various vestiges of clothing from one another. Sansa was like a  _goddess_ undressed beneath him. He felt like he couldn't get enough of looking at her; that he could set her about the house naked, like some breathing piece of artwork, and he would still be transfixed every moment his eyes lingered on her flesh, smooth as polished marble. He took a pink nipple into his mouth, each in their turn, and Sansa's fingers buried themselves in his closely cut hair, her naked hips bucking up against his own, sliding her wetness over the length of him. The man moaned into her, pressed those delightful little hips into the bed. “Easy, sweetling...You'll have us finish before we've even begun.”

“I'm ready, Petyr, I really am...” It was possible she wasn't, but no girl could do much more to prepare for this. He found his gaze swimming in those ocean eyes of hers, drowning as his hands stroked down her sides to meet at her hips, to angle her properly for what came next.

“It will only hurt for a moment,” he assured her, the hot tip of him pressed against her readily. “Move as soon as you feel you can and it will subside.”

The girl's hands ran up his naked torso, through the light dusting of dark hair across his chest, over a massive scar that she was  _far_ too heated to ask about now. “I'm not frightened.”

“Brave girl...” He leaned forward, his mouth lingering near her ear, bit gently yet sharply at the lobe as he entered her. Sansa gasped for a moment, struggled, but very soon did as bid, moving hesitantly against the man on top of her. Baelish was too overwhelmed by the feel of her to do much more than  _savor_ for several moments. She was right,  _oh God_ was she right to want to forgo any barrier to  _this_ sensation. A man so careful, with every contingency possible, but she undid him into risks – could do it again,  _would,_ he felt certain, perhaps just out of curiosity to see how far she could push him. Better not to let her know how far, how  _dangerous_ the girl could be. Whatever. He couldn't care, with Sansa Stark wrapped around him. It was only what he'd been angling for most of his life, so the cost of it would be minimal whatever it was. 

Sansa was breathing heavily, moaning wantonly into the dark of the bedroom, pressing herself lasciviously against her lover. It was all the man could do to keep himself from finishing just from the knowledge of her. She was a brave girl, she moved with him haltingly, but with growing boldness, her murmurs of approval growing in volume along with her pleasure.

Neither had a clear indication of the passage of time, between entry and finish. Petyr only knew the  _intense_ clenching of the girl around him, that holy moment where her pleasure peaked and his efforts were rewarded with  _gorgeous_ songs conducted by his elegant fingers. He watched the girl finish and collapse beneath him, watched her shiver and the hot flush color her entire body. Beautiful,  _gorgeous_ . He lasted not even a moment more, tensed and thrusting hard against her, her soft hands trailing against his sweat-slicked back. He might have spoken first, or she might have: “That was...that was...”

Whoever hadn't said that agreed, a breathy, “Yes...” in the darkness. Their voices were as mingled as their skins, as their fluids. The attorney crashed slowly beside her, without the energy to even move his head onto his cool, waiting pillow. Sansa refused to be disentangled from him, however, her legs still twining with his and her fingers still searching experimentally across his flesh. Petyr found he minded this not at all, and at last was able to roll onto his back, skin still hot and breathing still heavy. The Stark girl fitted herself beside him, and now her fingers wandered over the scar. He said nothing; the girl hummed. “Will you tell me about this?”

“Whenever you want.”

“Not tonight...it doesn't matter tonight.” He supposed it didn't. Sansa's chin rested on his chest and she smiled sleepily. “Did I do alright?”

Girls could ask that without sounding needy; one of their little blessings to make up for all the detriments accorded them. “You were wonderful.”

She believed it – at least partly because it was true, and her hand continued to run over his taught abdomen. “I'll get better, too. We can....practice.” God, she was going to kill him.

Petyr stifled his groan and rolled to the side so that Sansa's hand slid down to the mattress. “You should really go use the restroom. Healthier that way.”

The girl wrinkled her nose. “Not very romantic, is it?”

“Did you find this romantic?”

She flushed; he hoped it was a habit she would be unable to drop, because it was  _distressingly_ fitting on her, adorable and arousing. He ran the backs of his fingers over her red cheek. “Did you?”

Questions answered with questions, she was learning, clever little thing. Petyr squeezed her hip. “Go on, girl. I'll stay awake for you, hm?”

“Ugh.” Sansa pulled herself from out of the warm nest of their bodies, her hips wiggling attractively as she walked. “I'm not a child, you know.”

Oh, that was not something easily forgotten, not when he could see his seed dripping down her thigh. The things he was going to do to her, her promises of behavior...It was all wicked and  _excellent_ . The well-sated lawyer rearranged the bed, pulled back sheets and fluffed pillows. In only a minute or two, his conquest and his conqueror returned to him, slipping next to him again and setting her hands to wandering over his torso. Baelish hissed. “Your hands are cold.”

“I wasn't going to wait to let the water warm up.”

“Torturous little thing....” He could feel his eyelids drooping, his body both heavy and light simultaneously. He sank deeper into the mattress with Sansa's head pillowed on his chest. “Suppose I pay you back for that later?”

“There's nothing to pay back.” She was growling sleepy as well, unsurprisingly. Her foot played absently against his leg and he felt  _dangerously_ happy. Terrible to get what was wanted, where would his caution be now? Was a slip of a girl worth it? Sansa nuzzled into him, and he could not tell himself that she was not. “We're partners now.”

“Were we not before?”

“Not like this.”

Sansa was right. He knew it as she fell asleep with her head nestled just below his shoulder. Strange and beautiful, how he could find an empty, sobbing girl in a prison cell and have her lying atop him now as a goddess of lust and vengeance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kids, don't be like Sansa. Always use protection.


	5. Courtroom

“...and did you visit the investment firm on the afternoon of the twenty-seventh?”

            _“Don't hesitate,” Petyr had counseled her. “Juries see hesitation and they think you're unsure, they think they can't trust you.”_

_“But I am unsure.”_

_“You're as sure as you need to be.” Mr Baratheon was nodding while Mr. Seaworth showed her the calendar again, each date of her appearance at the office carefully circled in black ink. “These are the dates you were there. It's more important that you know what you saw.”_

_“No hesitations, Sansa.” Petyr's eyes flashed at her, certain, proud. She thought maybe he wanted to take her hand, she wanted him to take her hand – but he was too careful for that. So was she._

            “Yes.” Sansa nodded, her low ponytail brushing against the nape of her neck. Sansa's hair was red again, copper and gold in the strong light of the courtroom. Twelve faces watched her from the jury box, to her right the judge glanced at her occasionally, as necessary. The court reporter did not, typing quietly away as District Attorney Baratheon paced the floorboards. He cut a dashing figure in the court, Sansa had to admit, she could see why he had won his position so handily; the dour Baratheon son was dressed in charcoal grey with a stark, black tie, but he had antler cufflinks tipped with silver that his broad hands fiddled with. It was something he did when he thought, she had noticed; she once mentioned it to Petyr, before she'd left the house, and he'd laughed, his palm pressing to her cheek. _“My clever girl. Nothing escapes you, does it?”_

            “Was the defendant there that afternoon?”

            Sansa's eyes scanned to Cersei Lannister at her table, her lawyer, Mr. Trant, whispering steadily in her ear. She wished she hadn't looked, because every time she did, she was forced to see those green eyes _hating_ her, willing a life of misery and horror upon her – _but that had already happened, thanks to this woman._ Cersei scowled when it was Sansa she looked at, and looked the bereaved widow and mourning mother otherwise, hair impeccable, expensive wardrobe flawless. Sansa was almost plain by comparison, her black skirt to the length of her knees and with only a white blouse. Petyr had advised simplicity, it was he who insisted she merely tie her hair back and keep to the bare minimum of makeup. _“They want to see an innocent, trust-worthy face. You'll win them completely, my sweetling.”_

            “Yes, sir. In Mr. Baratheon's – that is, Robert's old office.”

            “And what was she doing?”

            “Mrs. Baratheon was behind the desk, at his computer; the room's shaped kind of like an arch – like a bowl? So that the person behind the desk can look out the window at the view and when someone walks in, they see the computer screen first.”

            “And could you see the screen?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Can you tell the court what was on the screen, Ms. Stark?”

            Sansa took a deep breath, but quickly. No hesitations. “They were stock figures, reports on the firm's earnings in the last quarter. She closed the window as soon as Joffrey and I walked in, so it felt like maybe she wasn't supposed to be looking at them.”

            Trant raised an arm, glaring with his droopy, glossy eyes. “Objection, Your Honor, the witness isn't here to comment on what the defendant should or should not have been looking at.”

            Stannis turned to the judge's chair, blue eyes firm and stance assured. “It speaks to guilt, Your Honor, whether the defendant had enough classified information to be considered an inside trader.”

            The judge paused only momentarily, considering the matter with a drum of his fingers. “Sustained. The jury will disregard the witness' feelings on the subject.”

            Sansa's eyes quickly sought out Petyr's in the courtroom, found him behind the rail, seated behind the prosecutor's desk, Mr. Seaworth just before him as he furiously scribbled notes. Was that wrong, had she done it wrong? Petyr's face was his smiling mask, his usual self, unmoving and un-revealing. But she could see his eyes, could see their greenery even from this distance, and could see the quick tick of his brow and the infinitesimal shake of his head; no, not to worry. This wasn't on her. It was Stannis' job to make the case or not. She was doing fine. The girl breathed.

            Sansa had been so focused upon this she missed Mr. Baratheon addressing the defense attorney with, “Your witness,” had almost failed to notice Meryn Trant standing up. This was the part that frightened her; she swallowed, but she hoped she did so discretely. Sansa remembered Mr. Trant, remembered the meetings he had with Cersei at the house, their hushed discussions and his cruel eyes. She hadn't liked him then and she did not like him now. The girl raised her chin, not about to cower. Not now, not ever again.

            Trant smiled, and to her it was ugly and oily and awful. “Ms. Stark.” There was a pause. Was she supposed to answer that? “You have a fantastic memory of the afternoon of the twenty-seventh.”

            Sansa blinked a little, wanted to look at Petyr – but thought she had better not. “I don't know if it's fantastic.”

            “I wonder – do you remember other things about that day?”

            “Some, yes.”

            “Perhaps...” The man turned slowly to smile at the jury, stroking the red point of his beard. “What you had for breakfast that day?”

            Sansa's red brow furrowed. “I could guess.”

            “Guess.”

            Stannis raised an arm from his seat at the table. “Your Honor.” His voice was put upon and disbelieving.

            “A point, Mr. Trant,” the Judge drawled, fingers drumming again. “Make it quick.”

            “I'm getting there, Your Honor, I assure you.” And he smiled at Sansa, and it made her feel sick in the pit of her stomach. “Suppose you guessed.”

            The girl shrugged, thinking back to hot summer days at the Baratheon kitchen table. Long ago, so long ago it was now – the fall behind bars, the winter in Petyr's home, and now buds of green were forming on the trees in the city. She could see bare branches with just hints of life scraping the windows from her seat in the courtroom. Sansa thought back, she remembered sitting next to Myrcella and Tommen, eating breakfast quietly, as if this were all merely an extended vacation, a bit of youthful summertime pleasure in the early-dawning heat. And all the while, did they know that she wanted to scream? “Cereal.”

            “And would you have to guess what you did with Joffrey Baratheon that day?”

            “No, I remember that.”

            “What about what you wore?”

            “I...I suppose I'd be guessing there.”

            “And what was on the computer screen? Would you be guessing then, Miss Stark?”

            Stannis was on his feet, palms flat on the table. “Your Honor!”

            Mr. Trant pressed on; a bit ballsy, perhaps, but even a jury instructed to disregard could have a difficult time following that order. “It's a little convenient that you remember what you saw so clearly, isn't it, Miss Stark? Do you remember the numbers, too? The title of the reports?”

            The judge had already struck his gavel, voice scratchy and serious. “Don't test me, Mr. Trant. The objection is sustained!” To the girl below him, he said more gently, “You don't have to answer that.”

            Oh, but Sansa _wanted_ to answer. She felt the burning tension behind blue eyes; she wanted to spit it out at that wretched man, always so eager to do that _horrible woman's_ bidding. She wanted to snarl that yes, she remembered, that the document said quite handily in bold, black print, “EARNINGS: FOURTH QTR,” and she could see how the values went down, down, down with Robert Baratheon's death. She wanted to crow how she was far smarter than they ever gave her credit for, that she knew when earnings reports were made public and it was _not_ before the twenty-seventh. She wanted to rip Cersei apart the way she'd done to her-

            But the bailiff was suddenly there in his pressed, brown uniform, a hand extended to help her from the witness stand. Masks. Masks. Tamp it all down, look demure and harmless and people will want to believe anything you tell them. Let the rage out later, not now – later, with someone who understands. Let her kisses be full of teeth and her fingers tearing, and she wouldn't care if his buttons popped when she ripped Petyr's shirt from him, because he would understand it.

            Davos was standing by the aisle to the spectators' benches, and there was Petyr. Mr. Seaworth patted her shoulder, whispering quietly, and Sansa's hands shook; he would think it would be nerves from such a sweet, innocent little thing. He must have, for he was all assurances. “It was very well done, very well done. Don't worry. It's going to be alright, don't worry.”

            And Petyr did the same thing, taking her hands between his own. “Oh, dear Sansa,” he purred, but she met his grey-green eyes and he _knew_. He knew why her hands were shaking.

            And it was not from fright. Not this time.

           

* * *

 

 

            He had ushered her quickly and quietly from the courtroom and found an empty bench at the end of the quiet hall. The place was almost empty save for court clerks and interns shuffling between doors, journalists and nosy spectators packed into different sessions of court – and all mainly to watch the crime of the year, the trial of the elegant Cersei Lannister.

            The inner sanctum of the courthouse was all laid out in marble with brass fixtures, a remnant of  WPA efforts in the thirties. It was elegant and classical, and the clack of shoes on the floor echoed throughout – but whispers didn't carry all that well. Petyr could murmur in her ear as she gulped quietly from her water bottle, and no one would be any the wiser. And it was hardly unusual here, an attorney talking lowly with their client. Sansa shivered a bit from the coolness of the water and the feeling of Petyr's breath at her ear.

            She had missed this. No one would ever believe her, but she had missed it. Sansa had left the house several days ago, had not seen nor spoken with her lawyer in several days. They had agreed to it, she and Baelish and Baratheon all – not that Stannis knew the particular reasons for her lonesomeness. But it was all quite regular, Sansa needed to stay close at hand leading up to the trial, and at the hotel she could have a police guard; there had been notes left, disturbing little snippets warning  against her testimony. Davos had thought to comfort her, but Sansa took it all stoically. She'd had much worse than this.

            Petyr called – once. She knew that's what would happen, they had talked it over in hushed tones in bed that last night, sleepless with hands wandering in lazy caress. That they needed to be careful now, the spotlight would be turning on. Anything untoward, and there could be talk, words to jeopardize all that they had planned, the carefully wrought vengeance against the Lannisters. One call, strictly business, just him making sure she had what she needed and assurances he would be there the day of her testimony, and was she doing alright with Mr. Baratheon? She wasn't sure if she appreciated how stoic he could be or if she wanted him to blabber about missing her like a drunkard. He stopped by the District Attorney's office on only one afternoon, dropping off papers that were related to another case entirely, and he checked in on their progress, all his usual, oily smiles. Sansa had to work not to beam at him.

            “Not working my client too hard, are you, Stannis?”

            “She's doing fine,” the gruff Baratheon scowled. “Did you bring me those time stamps?”

            “In triplicate.”

            Davos had laid his good hand on her arm. “ _Are_ you doing alright, Miss Stark? Would you like a water break?”

            She smiled that sweet way that Mr. Seaworth seemed to appreciate and nodded. “Alright. I'll make sure Mr. Baelish isn't worrying about me.”

            Stannis rolled his eyes. “So sweet.”

            By the water cooler, nothing happened but the pleasantries one might expect between two people with a comfortable working relationship – and nothing else. Was she liking her hotel? Not going crazy with the D.A.? Anything he could bring her? And while he talked in his even voice, so mundane a conversation that absolutely no one looked in their direction, his hand slid to hers and a note was palmed there, hardly bigger than a post-it. How it had _burned_ in Sansa's pocket until she was alone in the hotel room that evening, hardly able to focus on the discussion with Mr. Baratheon as the star witness. Her mind had gone wild with imaginings of what it might say, words of devotion or filthy promises of what he would do to her once this was all over.

            She only unfolded it when alone, seated on her bed with legs crisscrossed. His elegant, looping scrawl was enough to make her nerves tingle. “ _I am burning to have you again._ ” Sansa's breath hitched. “ _Behave until I do_.” She didn't sit over the thing, pondering it or covering it with kisses or sighing wistfully. Instead, she slid from the chemically-cleaned duvet and strode calmly to the bathroom, ripping the tiny note into pieces in her hand. She tilted her palm over the toilet bowl and watched the scraps float down like cherry blossoms in the spring breeze, and she flushed it all away without hesitation. Sansa was too smart to hang on to something like that – and anyway, she didn't need to. She could remember the words without seeing them before her.

            She remembered them when she turned out the lights and slid beneath the well-worn sheets and let her hands roam over her form in a quiet imitation of the way Petyr did, and coaxed from herself the sounds he so enjoyed swallowing from her mouth. All for him, and she thought, strangely, he must know that. And while men in the throes of self-satisfaction had always been a vulgar and disturbing thought to her before, she hoped Petyr was doing this across the city limits, alone in the massive bed with its black sheets and missing the scent of her hair on his pillow.

            But that was before. They were alone again, and yet so very not alone. Was Petyr working to restrain himself beside her? She wanted to smack him, that he could be so cool. “You were beautiful.” His voice was husky in her ear as he said it. Perhaps he wasn't quite so cool after all? Sansa smiled as she closed the cap on her bottle. “And Trant was an idiot. He's only tightening the noose with antics like that.”

            She just barely turned her head to him, blue eyes flashing. “It was alright?”

            His thumb brushed over her knuckles – and then drew away again. Sansa repressed a smile inside herself. She could make him break, but later. “Perfection.” The girl tilted her head back against the cool plaster of the courthouse walls, tired eyes closing, and Petyr watched her in his discrete, penetrating way. “Davos said you should be alright to leave the hotel now; they're getting ready to conclude and the defense can't afford to drag this out, however much Trant might like to. Even Cersei's not that stupid.”

            Sansa nodded, sitting up straight again. “Uh huh, he told me. I checked out this morning, he let me keep my bag in Mr. Baratheon's office.”

            “Did he?” Petyr stood easily, his dry hand offered to her. Sansa watched his face for a moment, that wily look through his green and silver eyes that always signaled some form of amusement. She took the hand, he helped her to stand. “Shall we go get your things, then?”

            The girl nodded, and it was a solid moment before her lawyer released her hand. Was it reluctance there, the way the pad of his thumb drew over the back of her hand? A reminder of who had marked her oh-so permanently? Or was it merely a split second of weakness in the shark-ish man? They walked mostly quietly to the D.A.'s office door, but not entirely so. “Well? Do you feel relieved, now that your performance is over?”

            “No.” There wasn't even any real hesitation there. Sansa fixed the pins that kept her hair from falling in her eyes, but flyaway strands of copper still escaped anyway. Petyr smoothed one lock behind her ear, and she looked away. “I knew what to do when they wanted me on the stand – what to say, how to act. It was easy. What do I do now?”

            “Quite anything you like, I suspect. What did you do before?”

            “I feel like I don't know anymore – or like the girl that I was....that she doesn't exist anymore.”

            Petyr paused, his fingers still lingering by the shell of her ear. “Perhaps she doesn't.”

            Sansa nodded, inching her way forward in low heels, so that Petyr had to lower his hand in response. “All these months, I've been the girl trying to get back at the Lannisters. Before that, I was the girl who was just trying to _survive_ them. And before that....” She sighed, turning at the head of the stairs toward the all-too-familiar office of the District Attorney. “Before that, I was Sansa Stark. I had a mother and a father, a sister and far too many brothers....And if they're gone, who is Sansa? I've hid so long, I feel like I've lost who I was.”

            Petyr stopped her before she could reach the door, his hand on her upper arm, pulling her back. This part of the hall was empty enough he dared to bring her closer, voice low and husky. “Who does Sansa want to be?”

            The frightening part of that question was, she half knew the answer. That something in her was eager to go back, to be the girl – the _woman –_ that leaned over him in the bed, broke down his defenses, took control and gave it back. Oh, she wanted _that_ again, the ache between her hips, deep in her belly attested to that. But was that even nearly enough? She answered anyway. “....Somebody that someone wants – really wants. For me.”

            Baelish was staring at her; he seemed half mad in his looks, green eyes wide, mouth firm. He stared and stared and Sansa grew increasingly more uncomfortable. “Anyone who wants anything else is an idiot.” The girl looked up at him again at last, blue eyes bright with confusion. With only the barest glance to assess their company, his fingers wound into her red hair at the temple, the stroking motion near-rapturous. “Who do you think it was I wanted, hm?” His voice was low and gravelly, and they stepped closer to the office door, sheltered by the overhanging shadow of it. “Dark haired Alayne? A shadow of your mother? Do I seem that delusional to you?”

            Sansa dropped her gaze down to his chest, to his dark green tie, and she thought of the scar that hid beneath his shirt, the mark she had run her fingers over in the darkness. “I-I...”

            He leaned forward to kiss her – and stopped himself, just _barely_ stopped himself. It made Sansa proud to know that, for a moment, he could not resist, but also happy to know he wasn't a love-drunk _fool_. His breath was a puff against her mouth, still waiting for that kiss. “It was you, horrible girl. The part you've played up till now, it was brilliance itself, it only makes you better – but it was always _you_ I wanted. Who could settle for any less? Who would want that mask when you are perfection,” his fingers left her hair to trail along her cheek, down her throat, to the collar of her blouse. He paused. “... _beneath_ all that?”

            She met him eye for eye – but only for a moment. After that, her hand fixed on the handle of the door, turned, and pushed the door open. She could see Petyr's eye twitch at the corner. “We should go in,” was all she said, and he nodded, something of a growl in his throat. The girl went first and her attorney followed – but not too close behind. Perhaps he needed a moment to rein in that oh-so-critical control. Sansa raised her voice in a manner that was completely conspicuous, but would not have alerted the attention of any passers-by. Baelish was fixing his tie as he entered Mr. Baratheon's office. “I was actually able to get quite a bit done while I was away!” Sansa was chirping in that too loud of voice, collecting her suitcase while Petyr picked up her jacket for her.

            “Did you...” His voice was much cooler, the reserved manner of a distinguished attorney, so that that was all anyone would see as they left and shut the door behind them, walking back down the stairs toward the court entrance. “What business, exactly, did you have that was so pressing?”

            “Well, if there's only one thing I learned from my time with the Lannister's, it's the importance of paying one's debts.”

            “I would hope you learned a great deal more than that. But what debts did you have to pay?”

            “My debts to you.”

            Petyr scoffed, not noticing her stopping in the hallway at first, not seeing the girl unzipping the outer pocket of her case. “Sansa-”

            “Here.” She held, in her outstretched hand, an inconspicuous manilla envelope, though she'd written “ _To Mr. Baelish, All My Thanks – Sansa_ ,” on the front in that perfect hand of hers, a swirl for the dot of the I.

            The attorney did not take it at first. “What is that.”

            “It's a present.”

            “I thought you said you were paying back debts.”

            “I was.”          

            “That's not the same thing as a present.”

            “Will you just take it?” That irritated V had appeared between her two eyebrows, that thing that always made him smile just slightly – that mannerism of hers that _charmed_ , as so very many did. Smirking in that armoring way of his, Baelish did, hesitantly, slowly, as if afraid it might bite him at any moment. Still, he made no other move than that. Sansa blinked and the irritation disappeared from her round face. “Aren't you going to open it?”

            “What, here?”

            “Yes.”

            “I hadn't planned it.”

            “ _Petyr_.” She said it lowly, but in just the right way to make the man sigh, to slide his thumb beneath the seal and acquiesce. In another moment, he was pulling a heavy piece of card-stock from the folder and examining it closely. Sansa smiled. “Do you like it?”

            Petyr said nothing. He stared at the thing between his fingers. All of the watercolors Sansa had dabbled with all those months, his gifts of the paper and the brushes – and she had painted that wild patch of his backyard, where the blackberry bushes grew, and the creek tumbled by. “You...” He was otherwise totally speechless.

            Sansa smiled, zippered her case, and touched his elbow. “Let's go, Mr. Baelish.”

 

* * *

 

 

            “-of course I'm very sad about Mr. Lannister's death,” and here Sansa was answering a question about the recent passing of Tywin Lannister, halfway down the steps of the courthouse. She was thronged with reporters, microphones all pointed in her direction, cameras hungrily drinking in her every movement. Petyr stood some few paces back, the man out of the spotlight, as he always was. “My heart goes out to Myrcella and Tommen during this very difficult time for them, they're as dear to me as ever. I know how horrible it is to lose family members, and I want them to be able to find peace for their grandfather – and, of course, for Joffrey.”

            “ _Can you tell us your thoughts on Tyrion Lannister, Ms. Stark?_ ”

            “ _Do you think your testimony will assist the DA?_ ”

            “Pardon me, ladies and gentlemen.” Petyr stepped in with that ingratiating smile, that air of little nonsense as he took Sansa by the elbow and pulled her away from the hungry journalists. “My client has been through a very trying time. You'll excuse us.”

            Sansa's name echoed behind her as her attorney pulled her away and towards the parking garage. Even now, she was smiling. She'd been as perfect before the reporters as she had been on the stand, she could feel that in her bones now – what it was like when people _wanted_ to believe you. It was powerful, it surged through her veins and made the tips of her fingers twitch. She hadn't even noticed they'd reached Baelish's car until he'd hit the unlock switch on his fob and the vehicle beeped its welcome.

            “Well, Miss Stark.” He spoke in that quiet, smooth way of his as he loaded her case into the trunk. His fingers drummed against the open back of it and he gave her a long, appraising look. “Did I deliver as promised?”

            Sansa's head picked up, her purse hanging awkwardly by her elbow. “What's that?”

            “Out of jail; charges dropped; all of America in love with you – and the destruction of the people you hate. It's not a bad set of figures, is it? And all _pro bono_.”

            The young lady smiled, her face relaxing as she did so. “No one could have done it better, Mr. Baelish.”

            The man smirked, his chest puffed, and she thought back for a moment how easy it was to please him. ( _You're so good, Petyr – oh, yes, just like that, you're_ so _very good..._ And he acted like the world was opened before him in offering, just because it was her. She would miss that.) “So, what is it you plan to do now.”

            The Stark girl bit at her lower lip a moment, fingers fidgeting nervously against her arm. “I don't know. Mom and Dad would want me to finish school, though.”

            “What would you study?”

            Sansa looked at him from beneath red lashes, and a smile threatened at the corners of her lips. “Law?”

            Her protector seemed no less amused, even relaxed. “You'd be good at it.”

            The smile widened and she looked down again. “I thought...maybe I could take a vacation first, with some of that trust money; nothing big, just enough to....leave this behind me for a little while.”

            Sansa looked up when she heard the trunk of the car shut – not a slam, but loud enough to echo in the silent parking garage. Petyr didn't look angry, not even upset, just thoughtful, his perpetual mask of amusement doing nothing to hide himself from her. “So, leaving me a bachelor again, are you?”

            She attempted an uneasy smirk. “I'd have thought you'd want your house to yourself again.”

            “It's a building where I keep possessions, its only function is in ostentation. It could burn down tomorrow and I'd collect the insurance without a tear.” There was a steady beat of silence, him looking at her, her looking at him – and then he turned his face away and cleared his throat, as though this were merely a very casual, boring conversation. That was a poor lie for him. “It was beautiful while you were in it.”

            Sansa gaped for a moment, a little like a fish, and she knew that Petyr wasn't looking at her, because her cheeks weren't burning hot; instead, he was fishing his keys from his pocket again – and he seemed sad to her. She'd never seen him sad before. It was both heartbreaking and startlingly intimate. Her mouth opened before she knew what she was going to say, but then again, yes, she did. “...You know.” He didn't look up, but he stopped flicking through his keys, searching out the correct one. “I'm...going to need to get a roommate, after I get back, while I'm in school. Just to be practical, save money, that sort of thing.”

            The corner of his mouth twitched – and maybe not even toward a smirk. Toward something real, for half a moment, something _real_. She could hear the silence where his heart should be beating. “Oh, is that the case.”

            “Of course, your home is probably a bit out of a student's price range.”

            “We might be able to work something out.”

            Sansa leaned forward so that he could not ignore her any longer, so that he had to meet her blue-eyed gaze with one of his own, her eyes searching his face with a flicker of dormant hope. “ _Pro bono_?”

            “Mmm...” Petyr looked thoughtful for a moment, staring at her as deeply as he was (a look of _yes, yes, save me –_ as he had saved her, but then, wasn't he the _last_ man in the world to wear such a look?), but then he shook his head. “Not this time, I don't think.”

            “Well.” Sansa pulled her hair free of its low ponytail, half-sighed to feel it fall freely about her shoulders. Petyr stared after it and his pupils widened. She remembered that note from before, its two, simple sentences, and wondered if he was thinking on it now as well. _Burning,_ as he'd promised – and for her. “Someone did promise my face on every magazine in America. There might be a little money in that.”

            “So there might.” His mouth twitched again, but Petyr wouldn't let himself smile – not in front of her, not in public. She didn't mind so much. She knew what would happen once they got out of the city, once they pulled into the dark of his garage again; she'd had no idea how deeply she'd missed it. In a moment, he was at the passenger side door, holding it open for her. “Shall we?”

            Sansa slid into the seat slowly, elegantly, and looked up at her host with a measuring glance. “Of course – partners, after all.”

            Just before the door shut with a soft “click,” she heard his whispered reply: “Partners.”


End file.
